


One More Red Nightmare

by JayTRobot



Series: Cadence and Cascade [1]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Daddy Issues, Dream Logic, Dream Sex, Father/Son Incest, Guilt, Incest, Involuntary Orgasms, Longing, M/M, Night Terrors, Those Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 14:00:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20931377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayTRobot/pseuds/JayTRobot
Summary: Malcolm has a recurring dream -- a nightmare, he insists -- in which he's trapped in a cell with his father.





	One More Red Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> I watched the first episode tonight and I really just.........

The leather restraints chafed at his wrists as he tossed and turned. He felt as if he was an inept hunter, chasing peace, but failing, always failing.

His father haunted his dreams, night after night. He told himself that they were nightmares, terrors, anything to avoid the horrible truth, a truth that gnawed at him, burrowed into his chest like insects. When the sun was out, he had his work, his life, his remaining family to keep him distracted but when he was alone in bed, his father was all that he could think about.

Dr. Martin Whitly.

The Surgeon.

The man whose eyes had always followed him with such love and affection and _pride_. The man who was the best father a boy could ask for.

The dream came, like it always did, the moment that exhaustion wore too heavily on him, the moment that sleep finally pulled him under, kicking and screaming.

Distantly, he could hear the chains of his restraints rattle against his bed frame but the sound got tangled up in the dream and it became the sound of his father’s restraints, in his jail cell.

And there his father was, in the jail cell, chained hand and foot, _pleading_, blue eyes that looked so like his own imploring.

“Please,” his father would say, softly, the softness that his voice took when he really meant something. All tone of humor, all lilt of manipulation stripped away by bare honesty. “Please. Don’t leave.”

He knew that he did leave, in the real world. A tiny sliver of his consciousness argued that he could simply walk out of that cell, down the hall, and be free, like he actually had done.

But he wasn’t free. He would never be free.

He turned away, like he had those years ago, and, like clockwork, the cell door slammed in his face, locking him in.

“I won’t let you leave,” his father’s voice came hot and angry against his ear.

_Don’t let me leave._

“You’re mine.” His father’s hands settled on his waist possessively.

_Yours._

He ached. He whimpered. He struggled to wake but like a night terror, he knew he was trapped until the dream played itself out, like it did every time he dared to sleep.

“You can’t leave,” his father said, less threatening now. His father’s beard brushed against his neck, his shoulder, his shoulder that was suddenly bare.

He stood there naked in his father’s jail cell, like one of those stupid dreams where you get to class and realize you don’t have on pants, but worse, so much worse. He knew what was going to happen next. His restraints clanged loudly against his bed frame, his wall, as he fought with all his might to wake up.

He couldn’t go through it again. He would break.

It accomplished nothing.

He hissed as his father’s fingers slid into him, so gently, so tenderly. He opened to them without hesitation, willing them deeper. His father’s fingers, the talented and nimble fingers of someone with an intimate knowledge of anatomy, brushed against his prostate. He moaned, leaning forward, hands on the cell bars to brace himself for what came next.

In the waking world, his pillow was soaked with sweat and tears, his boxers damp with his leaking cock.

“My boy,” his father whispered. A kiss was placed at his pulse. “I love you.”

_I love you, too._

“You belong to me.” Another kiss and his father’s fingers slid out of him, slowly, carefully.

_Then claim me, father._

He could feel his father’s smile against his throat, his father’s cock against his ass. “I forgive you.”

He jerked in his bed, chains clanking abruptly, the entire frame shaking as he thrashed. The leather of his restraints bit into his wrists with the violence of it. Blood trailed down his arms but it still wasn’t enough to wake him. A sob came from his throat.

_I don’t deserve to be forgiven._

His heart hurt, his eyes stung. Even in his dream, where he wasn’t crying, where he was clutching the bars and grinding his body back against his father, his eyes stung.

“You deserve the world, my beautiful son. You deserve everything I have to give you.” His father’s cock slid inside, one simple movement, tender and complete.

He moaned, gasped, his own cock jerking and leaking. His knuckles were white on the cell bars. His father took him, lovingly, raining kisses down on his shoulders, hands caressing his body. There had never been a more pure act of love than his father claiming him, their hearts so full that they could no longer express it in words.

_I missed you._

“I know.” His father’s hands settled on his hips, pulling their bodies together. “But we don’t have to be apart ever again.”

Sobs wracked his body.

_Thank you._

His father’s cock reached the parts of him that no one touched. It made love to his insides, it filled the void inside of him. It stretched him nearly to the breaking point but he loved it, he loved the way his father had always pushed him just enough to encourage but never enough to harm. Every gentle thrust was anatomical diagrams read together, the easy intimacy of late night talks, proud eyes that had always held so much love.

“Let yourself go, my beautiful boy. I’ve got you.” His father’s arms wrapped around him, hugging him close, promising to never let him go.

His orgasm crashed over him then, as it always did, the moment his father embraced him. He cried out, head falling forward to hit the metal bars of the cell and in that instant, as he always did, he woke.

Malcolm sobbed, yanking at his ineffectual restraints, bonds that were supposed to prevent him from touching himself during his dreams, leather straps whose sole purpose was to stop him from reaching orgasm while dreaming of his father’s lovemaking. Useless.

He spat out his mouthguard with a shout of frustration. The front of his boxers was sticky and wet, his cock still twitching with the memory of his father’s breath on his neck. 

The restraints came away easily for his conscious fingers and he stood to strip off his disgusting boxers, stained with the evidence of his sick mind. The scent of his father’s cologne clung, half-remembered, in his nose.

A shower washed away the sweat and tears and blood and semen but it couldn’t cleanse his guilty soul.


End file.
